The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1)

by Alina K. Field

  And remembered the trousers and shirts spread across the floor.

  “Oh, my. That was…” She straightened her gown and forced her hand to her heart when it wanted to wander back under her skirts. She did not want to stop. She did not want to put her attention back to leaving. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave either. Perhaps they should both stay here for several more days. “You must be exhausted. Do you want to sleep here?”

  He tipped her chin up and kissed her nose again, his handsome face wrinkling into a curious examination. His was a strong face, the face of a man one could rely on.

  Unless that was the last strong face one saw before being locked in a manor house.

  But what had he said earlier about conspiring? She sorted through her sluggish brain to try to remember what had happened before he’d so thoroughly muddled her.

  “Let’s get you out of this dress.” When his fingers flew to the lacings in the back of her gown, warmth rippled anew. They would make love again. Yes, she wanted that. It had not taken long. There would be plenty of time to carry out her plan.

  She slipped the dress off, stepped out of it, and he helped her out of her stays and her chemise and drawers until all that remained were her stockings.

  She stepped close, touched her breasts to his waistcoat and her lips to his neck.

  “Ah, lass,” he said. “You’re hungry for more.”

  She stilled. Was he criticizing?

  “As am I. Ravenous. For you.” He stroked her cheek and looked at her.

  She suddenly felt her nakedness. “You are too tired. Let me get my chemise.”

  “No. I mean, tired I am, but my willingness is not in question. What’s in question is time.”

  “I see.” He wanted to sleep. He was leaving within hours.

  “And we haven’t done our conspiring yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.” He set her back and everywhere his gaze touched her, she burned. When his eyes finally settled on her face, they glowed with a dark humor. “We need to talk, yes, and we need to see if those trousers and coats will fit you.”

  Chapter 20

  His bride’s face all but thundered, a momentary flash of lightning streaking across her dark pupils, quickly and poorly obscured by a look of aplomb that didn’t hide her lack of innocence.

  What she would say was bound to entertain. If they survived this, they could have years of fun together, him and his Paulette.

  When we survive this. He would not let any harm come to her.

  She rattled her top teeth against the bottom, worrying over her words. “What did you have in mind, Bink?”

  Now he was to be Bink, ah, but she was trying to distract him, clever girl. He trailed a finger down her chest, over the swell of one sweet breast, across the puckered nipple and down again. “How did you think to hide these?”

  A tremor went through her and he wrapped her closer. She was not cold, his Paulette, just wonderfully responsive.

  “They’re not so big.”

  “Only a woman would say that. But here’s what will happen with the first man you see. A glance at this pert nose.” He touched her there. “And then right to the chest for more evidence. You’ll have to pull your hat low, bind these.” He palmed her breast. “And make sure your coat is buttoned.”

  She broke free, ran to the clothes on the floor and snatched up the gnarly shirt.

  “And we shall work on your walk also.”

  The shirt settled over her head and she strode back to him, swinging her arms.

  He laughed. “Better.” Leaning close he sniffed. The shirt had been laundered recently. Thank the heavens he wouldn’t have to smell another man’s sweat on her.

  He set a hand on her shoulder and she covered it with hers. “Now we talk,” she said.

  “You were going to leave.”

  Her chin jutted out. “You were going to leave. You were going to lock me up and leave me.”

  “Is that what you think? You thought I would leave you here, alone, unprotected, with one of Shaldon’s jackanape, lying, cut-throats, and go chasing after some supposed sum of money left you by your father?”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t think there’s money?”

  “Oh yes, I imagine there’s some. Not enough to cause so much excitement. I think there’s something else. Something Spellen would search your room for. Have you thought more about what it might be?”

  She bit her lip and looked away, holding back.

  She still didn’t trust him.

  “There’s nothing. Agruen took my ring years ago, and if he’s still searching it’s obvious that was worthless to him. There’s nothing else of her. Well, except for the knife and the letter.”

  And there was nothing in that letter.

  He knew. He’d read it after she’d given it to him to hold, and he’d gone through the rest of her things before they’d left Gretna.

  Her bags contained nothing but clothing and a few personal items. No false linings, no secret compartments.

  The same was true of the small wooden lap desk where an unsigned silly rhyme in her father’s stiff hand had been stowed between some blank sheets of paper, a pencil, playing cards, a tiny sewing kit, and a cheap travel guide.

  “Finish dressing and let’s see if you need any alterations. Does Mabel know your plans?”

  “No.”

  “Best leave it at that.”

  He watched her struggle with the trousers, long locks of hair dangling and getting caught.

  The hair was an issue also. There was just so damn much of its loveliness.

  She tucked in the shirt and fastened the trousers.

  “They’ll do.” He patted his coat. “I’ll keep hold of your mother’s letter. Is there anything else here you can’t bear to part with?”

  Her eyes lit on the blasted lap desk he’d helped her to rescue from the tree and from Cummings. She’d hauled it all over England and Scotland since then.

  “I’m sending one of Hackwell’s men back to him. We’ll pack that along to Greencastle for safekeeping.”

  “It’s a small thing. I can stow it into a saddle bag.”

  “Traveling by horse, are we? Fine. We’ll strap it on somehow and have a game of piquet when we stop for our dinner.”

  Her grin made his heart swell. No doubt it was foolish to take her, but he knew he couldn’t leave her here.

  She pressed against him in a tight hug. “Thank you, husband.”

  She wasn’t strong enough to push the breath from him, yet it took him moments to be able to speak.

  “I can’t work out what the devil is truly going on, Paulette. I don’t think Bakeley knows either, but Shaldon did, and Kincaid…well, he might or might not. Bloody damn spies with their games and their lies—they don’t even share the truth with each other. I don’t know why any of this would involve you. All I know is, I don’t want to lose you.”

  She gripped him tighter, all womanly sinews and soft strength, her breasts swelling against him, reminding him they would need to be bound, and he must get at least an hour of sleep. And load his pistols. Ah. He’d not had a chance to train her.

  “I do wish I’d had time to show you how to manage a pistol.”

  “But I know already.”

  He set her back. “How?” Jealousy sparked in him, and then he remembered—if her mother was truly a spy, perhaps she’d learned it from her and not from another man.

  “Jock taught me.”

  “Jock.”

  “Yes. He was an old man, a friend of my father and mother, who came to live with us. He was a spy, too. He taught me many things, and told me stories about her.”

  “He taught you how to load a pistol?”

  “Yes. And to shoot. He taught me how to swim if I fell overboard, like he had. And a bit about knives.” She grinned. “And lock picking.” She took up her jackets. “Shall I finish dressing?”

  “Try on the coats.”

  The waistcoat was tight at her breasts
, but it buttoned. The jacket was big, thank the Lord.

  “Now, have you scissors in your sewing kit?” he asked.

  She cocked her head, nodded, and went to get them.

  Bink made a show of swinging his lamp as he strode through the dark corridors and the shadowy stable yard, and Paulette scooted around in the gloomy perimeter with the bags he’d had her carry.

  It was proof they would travel light, as they must. If she was to play a gentry groom, she’d have to heft his kit and her own, at least when they were around others.

  And he would not be sure they weren’t around others until he’d cleared this manor by many miles.

  Bakeley’s coachman came into his circle of light and greeted him.

  “Any report?” Bink asked.

  “Nay.” The big man matched the quiet of Bink’s question.

  “What of the grounds?”

  “I’ve a boy near the gate.”

  “And the others?”

  “Getting sleep, sir.” He sounded weary, as if he envied the others. That was to Bink’s advantage. “Found cots for them in the servants’ quarters. His Lordship wants them rested afore you leave.” He glanced at the sky. “A couple more hours, I reckon.”

  Bink looked up also, hiding a great look of glee. The grooms and guards were in the house, not stretched on a blanket in the stable loft. Not having to saddle the horses quietly was a boon. He had a timepiece to gauge the hours, and knew every second would count if he and Paulette were to have a head start. Galloping cross-country in the dark was out of the question.

  Trickery wasn’t. He took a long breath. What he had in mind, wouldn’t take long.

  “There’s a fire in the hearth, and bread on the board. Go have a hot cup and something to eat and a rest. I’ll watch out here.”

  Bink helped Paulette up into the saddle and handed her his reins. “One more thing,” he whispered.

  “Shouldn’t we leave soon?” she hissed.

  He’d reminded her there were times a soldier nodded agreement, even in the dark. There were times when a soldier didn’t talk. It had been a difficult lesson for her. The sooner he had her away from here, the better.

  He’d opened the stalls and the horses had already started to mill. He’d stopped short of leaving the stable door open—it went against his grain to endanger the animals. Yet if Bakeley’s men had to run through the fields to catch an errant horse, they’d be slower still. He didn’t think he would hang for it.

  He patted her leg and shushed her. “I’ll be right back.”

  A branch crackled nearby and he froze. His hand went to the pistol at his waist.

  Johnny stepped out of the brush, and Bink’s breathing eased a fraction.

  “Sir.” The darkness almost swallowed the greeting, but Bink could see the man touch his cap.

  Though Johnny had agreed to come work at Little Norwick, though he’d made his claim upon Paulette’s jolly maid, Johnny had been Bakeley’s groom, which meant he’d been Shaldon’s, and Shaldon’s men might not truly shift loyalty so easily.

  On the other hand, all spies were liars and some could be bought, and the affections of Paulette’s maid might just be the price. He mustn’t give up.

  “Well, Johnny?”

  “Horses is all out of their stalls.” He still spoke in a hush. “Hmm. Don’t know how it happened but I’ll see to them. Should take a good while. Won’t bother the others.”

  He could hear Paulette’s excited breath, too loud, behind him. “See to it then. Quietly. And thank you.”

  Johnny saluted. “Overheard there’s a third man at watch in the line of trees just off the meadow they didn’t want you to know. I can keep secrets too. You and this boy here take care.”

  “Mabel.” Paulette’s voice came softly.

  “Don’t worry yourself, lad. She’s a tough bird, as is that young one.”

  Johnny disappeared into the darkness.

  “Can we trust him,” she breathed.

  “Aye. I believe so.”

  “Will they hurt him?”

  Hurt Johnny? “No.”

  He took the reins and led them off down the edge of a hedgerow to the back of the property. Paulette was an inexperienced rider, and the horses untried. He would walk this part of the journey until the shadows started to lift and they’d reached a road.

  It required concentration but still wasn’t enough to distract from her question. Will they hurt him?

  His brother wouldn’t, he was quite sure. But he wasn’t sure his brother was the man in charge.

  Paulette’s mount stumbled and he heard her stifled gasp. Johnny had Ewan, Mabel was stubborn, and Jenny resourceful. He must trust them to fate and put his attention on his own lady and the way ahead.

  Paulette stretched her legs and rested her back against the gnarled bark of a huge oak tree. The branches above offered some protection from a drizzly rain that colored the afternoon grey and kept her miserably damp. A thorough soaking might have been preferable.

  Bink handed her a flask. “Have a swig. How’s the backside?”

  It ached like the devil, now the numbness had waned, but she refused to whine.

  “The polite term is derriere. And it is excellent.” She lifted the flask to her lips.

  “Indeed it is.”

  Choking, she looked up into his grin.

  “Perhaps I should massage it for you anyway.”

  Heat curled through her, and an answering smile threatened. “You cannot be rubbing your servant boy’s bottom in the bushes off a public byway.” She handed him the flask and gripped his arm to haul herself up. “Should we not be going?”

  He looped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her. “There’s no one about.”

  The journey had gone well so far. She’d proved herself a good enough horsewoman, or else his choice of horse had been inspired. In any case, she doubted her backside was much sorer than his must be.

  If Bakeley’s men were in pursuit, they surely were miles behind.

  The rattle of wheels loosed Bink’s arm. He nudged her back further into the brush where the horses rested.

  A cart went by, a dark woman clad all in black driving a spry little horse—quite different than the farmers and drovers they’d met more than once. In the box, a man lolled, only the back of his hat visible.

  Her skin prickled, her nerves jigging like the barroom full of boys in their cups at the inn where they’d stopped for food late the last night.

  She couldn’t say why. They were not far from London, in a country area of gabled cottages and produce farms. The woman was traveling towards the way they’d just come, so she wouldn’t be Bakeley’s.

  And surely Agruen would not have a woman in his employ.

  Agruen hated women.

  She reached for Bink’s hand, smoothing her thumb across the calloused knuckle. He should be wearing his gloves.

  His big fingers wrapped around hers. “I’ll get you there safely.”

  The weight of worry had grown worse, Agruen’s men, and now Bakeley’s, would be following them.

  Bink always seemed to sense what she was feeling, and always managed to lift the trouble, to keep it hoisted so it didn’t crush her. He’d done that from the start, first with Agruen, then with Cummings, and now—now who was she running from, truly?

  She shook off her nerves and leaned into him. In fact, her husband’s knack for knowing her had begun earlier, with Bakeley’s announcement of their inducement to marriage. And the thought of how that situation had changed made her smile.

  “Up with you then.” He helped her into the saddle, and she bent and dropped a quick kiss under his hat brim, hitting his ear.

  He flattened his palm along her thigh, a great slab of warmth moving higher. Steam should be rising from her damp trousers, as it was in her eyes. She sniffed.

  His hand stopped. “What’s this?”

  She let out a slow breath, taming the quiver inside her.

  She’d found love. She loved Bink.
Bink, the tough bastard, Bink, the kind gentleman. Both men. She loved them both.

  She cleared her throat. “A great drop plopped on me from the branch up there.” She pointed at the offending limb. “Hit me square in the eye.”

  His long look turned her incipient tears into vapor. On a drier day, on a more secluded road, in a proper dress that could be discreetly lifted—and didn’t she now see the advantages of dresses for ladies?—he would have had her against the trunk of that oak tree.

  The thought brought back her smile. “We should get to this house of Lady Hackwell’s. Does it have a bedroom?”

  He mounted his horse. “As her steward, I’ve had occasion to inspect the place. And yes, it does.”

  Bink led them out onto the road, now empty as far as he could see. It was fitting the master should lead the way, and he’d kept an ear tuned to the horse clopping at his rear flank.

  She’d done well, his Paulette. Though whether she would be truly his upon receipt of whatever secret had been hidden for her—and by her—remained to be seen.

  And anyway, they were not out of danger yet. That ancient cart had more than niggled at him. The man lolling in the back could be any laborer, but there was something familiar about him. The woman driving he’d seen in profile. She looked to be a Rom, but the dress was wrong, too well-made for the rest of the setup. Perhaps she was a Spaniard, or a Frog. And he’d seen a woman like her at one of the inn stops the day before.

  He shook his head. The dress, the posture, the demeanor of that woman had been different. And in the decades since the Terror, there were more than a few dark-haired women tripping through the English countryside.

  He glanced back to where Paulette sat tall and straight. Ah, that was it. The woman on the cart, the woman at the inn, they both reminded him of his Paulette.

  Paulette’s coats outlined twin flattened mounds. It wasn’t in her to round her shoulders, but he would remind her to slump. They would arrive in London in the busy evening traffic. With luck, no one would take much notice of a rube and his boy.

  Chapter 21